


heart shaped box

by velociwrangler (annavalentina)



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game), Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Scars, Twisted Codependency, depending what canon you follow, schrodinger's incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:01:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29545518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annavalentina/pseuds/velociwrangler
Summary: "Michael," she whispered through her gritted teeth. He didn't look up at her voice. "Michael, your fun's going to end if you let me freeze to death."
Relationships: Michael Myers/Laurie Strode
Comments: 6
Kudos: 34





	heart shaped box

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaptainBeck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainBeck/gifts).



> a gift for beck :) for their loyal attempts to safeguard my tattered, nonexistent dignity in the server

He snagged her by the flying edge of her sweater, a harsh jerk that sent her momentum reeling, and Laurie crashed shoulder first into the wall only a couple steps from freedom and the expanse of snowy ground. Not true freedom, of course, but at least a chance to get to a pallet, to scramble on the ground, to  _ bolt. _

His hand locked around her throat and she seized his wrist and tried to sink her nails in through the coarse sleeve, glaring at him up the length of his arm, gasping for breath. She was trembling, thin sweater and light skirt not nearly enough to keep her body heat contained. Michael drew a step closer and she felt the pressure on her throat increase.

He was just - looking at her. That empty, slightly head-tilted stare, unreadable and hollow behind the white blankness of his mask. Just watching her, watching her, keeping her trapped there with the pressure of his hands - light, but so present around her throat the memories and the fear almost choked her on its own - and the weight of his stare.

She reached out with her free hand in a sudden maddened swipe, her nails raking for  _ his _ throat. 'Do something, you bastard,' she thought, but he didn't and she couldn't quite reach, certainly couldn't wrap her single hand around his throat. He cocked his head a little further to the side, and then he -

\- lifted her closer.

She flailed onto her toes, gasping, clutching the wrist of the hand that clasped her throat in earnest. The other hand's nails rasped down the front of his chest, scrabbling for purchase. "Fuck you," she hissed out, the words bursting out of her throat in a spear of venom. "End it. You know this trial is over."

But of course, of course, because he was fucking Michael and why would she start expecting life to be that generous, he didn't obey.

Instead he began moving, purposefully, back toward the sunken cushions and the cold fire pit. When he got there he lifted her off the ground - just enough, just to make her feet really kick - dropped her and she gave an undignified little yelp, a sharp little sound of shock and dismay that she hated for its vulnerability. She hit the cushions at least, but it still jarred through her bones.

Gasping for breath, she tried to kick her heels into the ground to scoot away, but she looked up and he was right  _ there _ \- looming over her, kneeling between her legs, cutting out the dim daylight filtering in through the windows - and then his hand gripped her calf.

She thought about pulling her free leg up to kick him in the dick, but - the image of him catching her leg, of holding both calves spread while he knelt between her legs  _ twisted _ in her stomach and even if she landed the blow would it make a difference, anyway? He seemed determined to drag this trial out. Her breath was coming in shallow gasps. She could hear his, slow and steady and deep. He was looking - no, he was looking at her shoulder. He released her calf and her leg fell, heel thumping into the cushions. One big hand reached for her sweater and pulled it down from her shoulder, exposing only the thin fabric of the turtleneck beneath.

She felt half in a trance, a mildly hysterical little laugh threatening to bubble up. She was so unused to anything but his methodical violence that him kneeling in front of her trying to - undress her -

He gripped her arm, hard, and then twisted his hand so that he caught the thin fabric of her shirt between his fingers and pulled it out. Laurie made a blurted noise of alarm and tried to twist away as the knife abruptly flashed. Fabric tore and a red line of pain flared hot and startling after a second of shock.

Laurie hissed something at him, clawing at the hand on her arm again, panic spiking her pulse into the stratosphere and breaking her stunned stillness. Was he - he'd always had a cruel streak, yes, with his macabre gestures and strange playacting, but if he was going to torture her, if this was what he wanted now and what the Entity would let him do,  _ endlessly _ -

He dropped the knife and grabbed her by the throat.

Laurie cried out, choked, furious, and realized he wasn't even looking at her face, he was studying where he'd cut the soft stretchy fabric of the turtleneck open, finding the scar tissue with his eyes inches away from his hand. She tried to make sense of it, breath rasping in her chest and half-risen onto her knees, and after a moment her brain cooperated, picking some kind of sense out of the scenario.

He was looking at her scar. He'd cut her shirt to look at her scar. He probably didn't give a shit that he'd cut her, but it hadn't been his main purpose as she'd thought when the knife had lifted.

In fact, the son of a bitch seemed to be completely ignoring her outside of that one patch of skin. His thumb moved to smear blood away so he could see the scar more clearly, mostly only causing a fresh trickle of blood and a fresh wave of shivers to wrack her body.

She had already been dressed too cold for this place. Icy air slipped in where her sweater fell away and her shirt was cut, and - perversely - she was only warm where the undaunted heat of his body radiated against her. "Michael," she whispered through her gritted teeth. He didn't look up at her voice. "Michael, your fun's going to end if you let me freeze to death."

The mask angled up to her.

Of course, if she genuinely thought hypothermia would just neatly sweep her away to freedom before he got his fill of entertainment she'd have kept her mouth shut. She didn't have that confidence, but maybe Michael wasn't quite so well versed in cold weather survival for mere mortals. She blinked at him defiantly and they stared at each other in a strange standoff. His hand was still curled around her throat. She tried to awkwardly reach with her free hand to tug her sweater up and his hand tightened.

She clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. "What do you want?" she demanded in a rough voice. A new wave of shivers rocked through her body, trying to shake itself to warmth. This close in the shadowed depths of the mask she could see his eyes tracking down over her, raking over her skin. "Michael, you bastard, just get it over with."

He didn't respond at all for a long moment, and when he did he did the strangest thing - he loosened his grip around her throat. His hand slid so that his fingers cupped the back of her neck and his thumb pressed up into the soft, tender flesh under her chin, forcing her to instinctively angle her head up a little. Then he -  _ settled _ again, for want of a better word, and resumed his staring.

Was he...

His thumb moved down, grazing over soft skin. Was he watching her  _ pulse _ ? Was he waiting for it to slow as the cold took her and she died. He -

She tried again to jerk her sweater back up over her shoulder. This time he allowed it, and she clutched the covering around her with both hands now. It helped a little, even as the blood seeped through it and quickly trapped the chill against her skin. He held her by the throat and the arm, body curving over her, simply... _ watching. _ She thought of him tucked behind a hedge, thought of his slowing tread in the distorted version of her hometown street.

God, she was so cold it hurt. "Michael," she said, and stopped again hating the crack of her voice. The animal peal of distress that made his head turn again, slowly, to look her in the eyes. "You son of a bitch," she whispered, exhausted. "How are you so warm?"

Some bit of grit and resentment in her warred with the cold and with the strange weight of his gaze. He didn't look away from her face this time, not at all, not even when she clenched her jaw tighter and scooted closer. This close she sat fully in the vee of his legs, her thighs riding up over his. She felt her pulse jump with the  _ awareness _ of that vulnerability.

Did Michael even think that way? Surely if he did she would have seen it before now. Would have seen... _ something.  _ 'Something like cutting your clothes off?' a little voice whispered, but she dismissed it. He had only been looking for his marks on her, the bastard.

Either way, he let her scooch awkwardly closer, glaring up at him the whole time. He just...watched her as she moved further into the shadow of his big body. If she could start a fire in the pit, she thought, but what the hell would she use and how would she scrounge those materials at her leisure.

"Let me up, Michael," she tried, body stiff.

He didn't budge.

"Really gonna wait for me to freeze to death, Michael?" she whispered. So long as he didn't slam the trapdoor shut or down her to let her bleed out, she supposed he could drag the trial on as much as he wanted.

Hand on her throat. Hand on her arm. He held her boxed in with so little pressure, needing so little force. Why should she listen? She should fight, she thought abruptly. Make him do something, make him tighten his fist and get his knife instead of just laying here under him. The cold wind tightened the skin over her body, and she curled her numbing toes inside her stockings. She should make him finish it so that she could return the campfire and wait for the next round - at least a moment's reprieve, probably. Maybe.

Through her teeth Laurie whispered, "let me get warm or I'll use the knife myself."

Behind the mask she saw his eyes drop to the knife not so far from her hip. The reaction was so immediate and pronounced that without giving herself a second to think she released his arm and grabbed for it. He reacted with frighteningly efficient speed and as he caught the handle she grabbed for the blade instead, recklessly - the cold metal grazed the side of her palm but he'd already rolled the handle in his hand so that the blade lay back along his forearm, and Laurie snarled in mingled frustration and triumph because he'd shifted his weight and she brought her leg up, driving her knee into the soft space just below his ribs and -

And he rolled and brought her with him, and all of a sudden she was straddling him, gasping for breath, with the knife pointing up again, almost grazing her belly. His body was a furnace between her legs and his hand was still locked on her arm. The blood had soaked into her sweater and slid down, wetting the fabric and giving his fingers a fresh coat, and she looked down at him - her hair hanging around them. She was sitting on his belly, hands on either side of his neck, staring down at him.

Something twisted in her belly and she thought, 'Michael - ' and then realized she'd said it out loud when his head once again tilted slightly.

So twisted, so wrong, so sick to look at him and feel closer to him than the survivors around the fire, the people who picked her up off the ground and pulled her down off the hook. Michael was a slice of her world, her scars, and her rapid panicked breathing meshed with the deep steady rush of his until she realized, that weight in his stomach settling lower and hotter and more frightening, that slowly his breath was shifting to match hers.

Was he mimicking her, like an animal aping a prey's movements in the underbrush? Or were they moving in tune, in sync, in this as well. This horrible deep well of something she didn't want to name in her stomach.

The knife moved and she looked down as if hypnotized. The blunt size turned to graze and drag across her belly under her fallen-open sweater, tugging and scraping at the fabric of her shirt. Not the point - quite. Not the sharp side - but angled, so that he could turn it any moment.

'Don't,' she thought to herself. 'Don't you dare even...he couldn't even tell the difference, probably, between gutting you or - or  _ fucking _ you, he wouldn't care, don't do this - '

His warmth beat through her. The inside of her thighs, her arms framing his face. The cold wind slipped under the fluttering edge of her skirt, turning the spilled blood on her arm ice cold. Laurie opened her hands on either side of his neck, watching her fingers spread against the dark cushions and not looking at his face.

Then, curving her back, she lowered herself toward the knife.

As slowly as her body itself moved, he turned the edge of the blade fully away. The cold flat of its side slid against her stomach until it stopped because she was almost laid full out on his body, belly-to-belly, and she braced herself and rocked up and she couldn't look at her hands anymore because she was barely a breath away from his mask. The mask that was his face.

His eyes behind the mask were fixed unblinking on her face. She whispered, "what do you want, Michael?" and he didn't answer and she knew he wouldn't. She drew in a ragged breath, feeling the flat of the blade slide against her stomach and just a little twist, the slightest angle of the knife, and she would be -

But he didn't angle it and she dropped her head, tucking her chin to avoid that gaze until her temple grazed his jaw and the latex at his neck was right in front of her nose. She thought, 'if I push the mask up, he'll turn the blade.'

Her mind reeled drunkenly as if caught in a game of tight rope. Was she trying to make him send her on or was she seeing what she or he would do if she stayed.

She gave another full body shiver, feeling the unnatural heat of his body like an invasive touch beneath her. Even the knife was warming between their bodies. She thought, the sound echoing with strange thrills in her head, that if they rolled over again her back could press into the cushions instead of the wind and he would warm her front and she might be able to banish the cold entirely.

Laurie pushed up on her arms and was stopped very abruptly. His hand was behind her neck again, thumb pressing to her pulse. Not making it difficult to breathe but the sense of pressure made her feel her pulse thudding through his skin as well. It tripped instantly faster, her breath taking on a ragged edge, and they were looking at each other again as he held her in place and regarded her curiously.

As if in a trance, she leaned forward again. The pressure of his thumb stayed but did not intensify: he did not squeeze her chidingly and warn her with a hovering brutal threat to keep her distance. And in turn, she did not duck to the side. She kissed the macabre lips of the white mask. His breath came out in a muffled sigh. She lifted her hand from the ground, her other arm shifting to bend against his chest to more fully take her weight, and she slipped her fingers under the edge of the mask.

His grip did tighten now, bruisingly. The pressure of his thumb canted her chin up and made her give an involuntary little protesting sound, a choked little whimper that made a shiver pass through his whole body in reaction. Her fingers didn't stop worming under the mask, feverish and masochistic, until its material pinned her hand to his face and her fingertips found his parted lips.

His mouth opened, and she thought, 'god, I - ' and then didn't think at all as she slipped her touch inside and let him bite her fingertips.

Their breathing was out of sync again; hers rushed in and out of her lungs in shuddering hiccupy gasps. But when she tried to fully obey the pressure of his hand and sit up again, pull back, try to regain some measure of clarity and control, he wouldn't let her move that far back either. "Michael - "

They hung weightless in limbo instead. Just the two of them, there in the cold, her fingers trapped in his teeth. She couldn't stop shivering now and she wasn't sure how much of it was from cold. She swallowed, hard, against the grasp of his hand. "Michael, you bastard," she said and if her voice cracked halfway through, if it was throaty and shuddering, she ignored it and how would he know how to interpret it anyway? How would he know what a turned on woman sounded like? "Do something."

She felt the knife shift against her belly and went rigid, and for a second the flash of expectation, of  _ knowing _ that he was about to turn the knife and slide it into her stomach all the way back to her spine was so visceral she was half convinced he had and the pain just hadn't fully hit yet.

But then she heard the knife thump softly on the cushions and gasped out a breath she'd unconsciously held. She said, "Michael - " and then his hand gripped the fabric of her shirt and pulled until it slipped loose from her skirt. She squirmed, not sure if she was fighting or cooperating or just  _ moving _ to give the chaos of sensation and impulse in her limbs some kind of outlet. He pushed his hand under her shirt and she cried out.

Her back arched instinctively away from his hand, but he was moving his touch up to almost mirror hers and his fingers pressed into the skin oh her upper chest, finding where no scar tissue resided because every time they were slid off the meat hook with a wet red rush of pain and relief it began to leave their bodies so they could be fresh for the next round.

He probed her skin there, too hard, making her twist against his grasp again. His hand on her throat was threatening to make her light headed as he tightened his grip almost absent-mindedly to keep her there. "Are you happy?" she said thinly. The surreality of it all, feeling the cuff of his sleeve and the hard bones of his wrist brush against the side of her breast through her bra, feeling so acutely aware of it that it was driving her a little insane that he didn't seem to notice. "You made all my scars."

His hand froze in place.


End file.
